


Sleeping Beauty

by Feynite



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes to the sounds of leaves rustling.</p><p>It is a slow waking, slipping from the peaceful stasis of dreams, and back to the urgent weightiness of a physical form. He takes his time. Drawing first one breath, and then another, as his fragmented consciousness regains coherence. After a few moments he becomes aware of the simple reality of his body. The expansion and deflation of his lungs. The beat of his heart. The ache of his muscles; tired, as if from a long run rather than a near-timeless sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt, courtesy of celtlassy on tumblr: 
> 
> "So many things go wrong for Solas, bad decisions, bad luck - when you have time, in any of your beautiful/dangerous worlds, I would love to see an instance when his clever plans actually work out the way he'd planned."

He wakes to the sounds of leaves rustling.

It is a slow waking, slipping from the peaceful stasis of dreams, and back to the urgent weightiness of a physical form. He takes his time. Drawing first one breath, and then another, as his fragmented consciousness regains coherence. After a few moments he becomes aware of the simple reality of his body. The expansion and deflation of his lungs. The beat of his heart. The ache of his muscles; tired, as if from a long run rather than a near-timeless sleep.

His vision is blurry as he blinks open his eyes. Distorted shapes of green, yellow, and grey gradually resolve into the roof of a temple. Sunlight streams down from clear windows, into a beautiful indoor garden. Ferns and flowers curl at the feet of a massive wolf statue. Somewhere he can hear the distant trickle of a fountain running. He can feel warm stone at his back, and a gentle breeze across his front.

A familiar voice chuckles.

“About time you woke,” Felassan says.

Solas turns, and sees his old friend and trusted agent standing nearby. Leaning next to a willowy tree trunk, arms folded, a slight smile curling his lips. When he attempts to sit up, his friend moves, and helps him with the surprisingly complex task of remembering his limbs. He presses a cup of water to his hands, and helps him drink, too; and it is only once he does that he realizes how much he needs to.

“How long?” he asks, in a rough whisper.

“Long enough for me to have lost count a few times,” Felassan tells him. “Take your time. The others have waited this long. They can wait a bit longer.”

Solas nods in thanks, and acknowledgement, and focuses on adjusting again. He takes steady breaths, and lets his gaze lock onto the petals of a nearby flower. They are on a small platform, he realizes. Someone has been regularly tending his sleeping place; leaving flowers, and keeping the soft mattress fresh. Likely changing it over time. The temple air is peaceful; serene, and a little sweet.

“How many did we lose?” he finally asks.

Felassan sighs.

“Most of the eluvians broke when you lifted the Veil, as you feared. We’ve repaired most of them and re-opened what networks we could, but some have yet to be recovered. Still. We have no reason to think an ill fate has befallen the others, apart from general pessimism; they are simply waiting until we can rouse them.”

Solas nods, accepting.

“The Veil?”

“It has begun to deteriorate significantly, of course. But you already knew that; it’s why you woke, after all. Still, we did what we could. These new elves have some clever ideas about things. It’s hard to chat with our spirit kin, of course, but there are still ways to safely manage it. It only took us about ten years to solve the tricky subject of mortality, thankfully. I rather appreciated not having to hibernate the centuries away to make it this far. The Black City remains secure. Some of our friends to the north have had a few thoughts on that.”

Solas blinks.

“Friends to the north?” he asks.

Felassan shrugs.

“People from across the sea. Friendly bunch, for the most part. We had a few skirmishes with them in the past, but we mostly get along now. They tried to invade, and a few of them got perilously close to breaching the Black City - which would have been a fun time for everyone - but we stopped them. Their current leader, Andraste, is a reasonable sort. Gets on well with Mythal’s new form, which is one of their lot rather than one of ours. Personally I don’t see the appeal. Round ears.”

Felassan says this in a fashion which implies that Solas should understand what is meant by ‘round ears’, and why they would be particularly unattractive. But at the moment he is still marvelling over the sensation of being _awake._

 _One last important thing to ask,_ he thinks.

“My foci?”

“The temple’s guardian has it. Lavellan,” Felassan tells him. “She has been watching over you whenever I was too busy making sure the world didn’t fall to pieces. Which is most of the time.”

He does not know that name.

“A young elf?” he asks. What he means is ‘someone born after I severed the world in two’, but apparently that comes across, because Felassan gives him a knowing look and a nod.

“You will have to think her. She saved your temple from incursions… well. An embarrassing number of times, really. She happened upon you once while I was away. In my defence I _was_ busy with very important things, and I had no idea anyone even came this deep into the forests here. She is very excited to meet you, all conscious and not snoring away and everything. Just between you and me, I think she has a thing for you. Which is impressive, really, I mean you won her over and you weren’t even conscious at the time; and normally I would say your appeal is at least eighty percent personality. Of course, so is your tremendous range of flaws, so there is that-”

“Felassan,” he interrupts with a sigh. This is ridiculous. He did not wake from thousands of years of uthenera to listen to his old friend gossip about some child who chanced to become smitten with his slumbering form. A child who has apparently been entrusted with his foci, no less.

That is an arrangement that will need to change in a hurry.

Pressing his hands against the side of the dais, he makes his way onto his feet. A bit wobbly, at first. Felassan has to steady him. But after a while he remembers movement. How to hold the weight of himself, and work his limbs, and navigate this world. He is clad in different clothes from the ones he went to sleep in; though if it has been so long, he supposes those likely disintegrated over time. His current outfit is warm, if loose and simple; very soft. Sleeping clothes, he thinks, with a faint note of amusement. Felassan’s sense of humour had a hand in that, most likely.

“Take me to the orb,” he asks. Matters must be settled, now, before they become too lost to manage; either for him to bring down the Veil and remove the threat of the evanuris once and for all, or fortify it, and prolong the matter further; until a neater solution can be devised. 

“It’s not far,” Felassan assures him.

Solas is almost afraid to ask. Visions of some awkward, soft-cheeked child, with a head full of fairytales and smitten daydreams fill his thoughts. A foolish assumption on his part, really. Felassan did mention _incursions,_  after all, and not in a tone which implied vermin infestations or a few stray tomb raiders.

No indeed. His friend is correct when he says that the orb is not far. The first corridor they exit by is occupied by…

Solas stops short.

Oh.

She is… that is… that is not a child.

The woman is dressed for battle, but wears her gear in a fashion that implies she might always be. Elegant but worn armour is layered over top of fine-woven fabrics that cling to her obvious musculature. A large staff is slung over her back. The air around it fairly crackles with the promise of magic; yet it is further from her grasp than the wicked-looking daggers strapped to her belt, which he suspects might see more frequent use in small skirmishes. Her gaze is sharp and intelligent. It takes him in with obvious interest, and he finds himself focusing on her face, first; rather than the orb tucked carefully beneath one of her arms.

Felassan inclines his head towards her.

“Solas, Lavellan,” he introduces. “Lavellan, this is Solas. Well, the conscious version, anyway. You already know his sleeping beauty mode.”

Lavellan clears her throat, and shifts lightly on her feet.

“I watched over you while you slept,” she admits.

“…Thank you,” he replies. This corridor is warmer than the garden, it seems.

He glances at Felassan to find his friend grinning knowingly at him.

Well.

…Damn.


End file.
